Of Suna and Sunsets
by Xi-feng
Summary: Sandaime Kazekage and a young Sasori discuss puppets and politics as the sun sets over Sunagakure.


"_Killing him for my collection gave me a hard time indeed... That's why I like him the best."_

_-Sasori_

Sandaime Kazekage steps out of the council chamber and into a small courtyard that the setting sun fills with rich, slanting rays of dying light. Sand has crept into the corners and drifted in the lines between the flagstones: it crunches underfoot with each step. The young Sand-nin bites back a yawn and absently threads his fingers through his hair, pushing drooping bangs up and out of his eyes. Even at this time of day the heat is intense, and the heavy black strands are warm to the touch, soaked with sweat close to his scalp.

Becoming a Kage is, in theory, quite simple. The usual qualification that people bandy about is that the Kage is the strongest ninja in his or her village. But the few who take up the title quickly find the old life of missions and training closed off, shut out by the heavy doors of the council chamber and instead of completing tasks sent to the village by the feudal lord and his aristocracy, as Kage one of the main tasks is to meet with these same lords face to face and accept their requests... or, alternatively, try and explain to them just _why_ attacking Fire Country with a battalion composed of only a few hundred chuunin and special jounin would be a very, very bad idea. And if the lord of Wind Country isn't spoiling for a fight then he's busy pursuing his other love – and he isn't imaginative enough for that to be anything other than money – and devising ways of cutting back funding. Sandaime often wonders where he thinks all these ninja to fight his battles will come from if he constantly pushes year after year for cutbacks to Sunagakure's academy, let alone basic living expenses that mission fees alone hardly begin to cover. When he accepted this job he knew it would involve a fair amount of politicking, but locked away behind council doors from sunup to sundown for five days in a row? Suna could have been invaded by rabid hordes in the meantime, and none of the council, himself included, would have noticed. But then, the council are mostly old men and women who live their fullest in the long moments that stretch on and on, golden and sticky like syrup. Sandaime is very different. Becoming Kazekage at the age of sixteen is something previously unheard-of, and even now, seven years later, he is still the youngest to have held the title. Perhaps for this reason the council do their best to keep him on an extra-short leash – he may be strong, but in their eyes he is still flighty and inexperienced, not yet fully suited to the feather-light handling of Suna's delicate diplomatic relations. Who knows, they might even be right about him, if by 'flighty' you mean 'the type who might like to get up and stretch his legs after six hours' debating border patrols in the close heat of the gloomy, depressingly windowless hall. A good S-class mission might be nice around now, just as a break from these endless talks. A relatively straightforward objective, clearly defined enemies and possibly the chance to let the old Iron Sand out for a spin. Ah, but those were the days!

...Actually, perhaps he _is_ catching up with the old people. There's a sobering thought.

But aside from the taxing business of keeping a neutral expression when dealing with court nobles who've never seen a kunai before in their lives, much less know which end you hold onto and which you stick into the enemy, there are also many, many blessings that come with the position. Sandaime passes through the courtyard and begins making his way down the long flight of steps that lead into the village proper. The village... Hidden Sand... home. Knowing that he is responsible for its protection, that his fellow citizens have chosen him to lead and shield them from harm: that is a great gift as well as a great responsibility, and one he intends to live up to. To be Kazekage is to care for and love not only the village, with its narrow dusty streets, tall and imposing cliff-walls and the wind-weathered buildings with their domed roofs clustered against the reddening sky, but to do the same for each of its citizens: the grim, quiet jounin who head out to each mission with no expectation of returning; the old folk, retired and wishing only for a few final years of peace to be granted them; and the children, some bright and full of hope, some already damaged and difficult despite their age, but none of them irrevocably broken just yet.

..._And speaking of difficult..._

There's a small figure perched on the lowest step, hunched over its knees and lazily dragging a stick back and forth in the earth to make a loopy impressionistic drawing of... something. Sandaime isn't sure if it's meant to represent anything at all – perhaps if he squinted and stood on his head and stared at it from different angles for an hour or so he might be able to make it out... but the sun will have set by then and it'll be getting cold, and it's not as if he cares that much anyway. The figure itself is worthy of more immediate attention, if only because it's been here every waking moment for the last three days. If the boy's grandmother wasn't quite so legendarily strict, Sandaime might be willing to bet he sleeps here on the smooth stones at night, if only to get the drop on the council members as they congregate in the mornings for another full day of endlessly rehashed debate.

He stops a few steps before reaching the bottom, standing behind and slightly to the left of the boy so that his shadow falls across the dirt canvas. Of course the boy already knew he was there from the moment he stepped out from the chamber, but pointed ignoring of people is something he has always reverted to when he's annoyed. Pity he still isn't much good at it.

"Still here, hm?"

The stick stops momentarily in its tracing of a long curve to the right of the 'picture', then resumes its movements with an angry slash that furrows through the dirt and cuts the composition of lines cleanly in half.

Sandaime grins, just a little. Oh yes, some of them can be extremely difficult, but this may turn out to be the most rewarding thing he's done all day. "You know, if you wear a groove in that stone from sitting there day in, day out, I'm going to send the bill for replacing it to your grandmother. Shouldn't you be out on missions instead of lounging around here?"

_That_ earns the privilege of a glare, the boy whipping his head round and scowling up through a tangled, sweaty-looking mop of hair. His eyes glitter in annoyance and his mouth curves up into a little sneer. Sandaime absently notices a smudge of dirt on the other's cheek and for some reason it amuses him, just a little. He moves to sit down, but the boy holds up a hand, using the other to scoop up something small and overlooked in the shadow of the step he's sitting on. Handling it like something precious, he stows it away in the folds of his clothing before Sandaime can make out what it is. Once he returns to his original position Sandaime takes it as a signal that permission to intrude has been granted, and he closes the small distance and sits, rocking back a little to look up at the sky as the colour imperceptibly bleeds away.

"And shouldn't _you_ be talking about important things in that stupid council of yours instead of sucking up to dignitaries?" Ah, an echo of his earlier question, is it? There's no denying the boy is as intractable as the rest of his family, and if he works on it there's the potential there for some really caustic remarks when he gets a little older and a little more cynical. Some might argue that he has enough of that already, but a true cynic wouldn't wait all day under the burning sun for an updated answer to an equally burning question.

"Some of what we discuss _is_ important, actually. In fact, today was an especially productive day: around, oh, at least twenty percent of what we talked about could qualify as 'vaguely relevant', and half the time I'm certain most of them were paying attention, too." He pauses, watching the boy out of the corner of his eye. "Wait a little longer, Sasori. We'll be finished in a few more days, and then I promise I'll present your request to the council again. Just... leave it to me, and don't go hounding council members in the meantime. Do we have a deal?"

Sasori snorts, his foot sweeping out viciously to kick dust over the collection of lines in front of him. Both drawing and stick are lost beneath the sand. "'Just wait,' you keep telling me, but I've _been _waiting and now I'm sick and tired of it all. You know he's no good to me if I don't get him soon."

"He isn't going anywhere, Sasori," Sandaime reminds him. "All non-essential business been put on hold thanks to the arrival of this delegation, and that includes passing of sentences. If the council agrees then you'll get him in a few days' time. You can be patient until then."

"_If_ the council agrees. And they're all useless and senile anyway. No wonder no-one respects Suna anymore." Sasori huffs a sigh and looks away, scratching his nose distractedly. The desert isn't kind to people with his colouration, and his skin constantly burns, peels, and then burns again. At present the bridge of his nose glows a deep and angry red, with wings of colour spreading out to cover his cheekbones on either side. It looks raw and painful, and the boy obviously hasn't done himself any favours by sitting unprotected under the blazing sun all day. Sandaime is willing to bet he's more than a little dehydrated by now, too, and begins a mental list of the food stops that lie between here and Chiyo's place. Perhaps he can offer to walk Sasori home and buy the boy a meal and as much water as he can make him drink on the way.

"They aren't useless, more like set in their ways. No one has ever proposed what you're proposing, and they're all a little worried, is all. What if something goes wrong, what if you can't control it properly, what if--" He stops, holding up his hands to placate the look of fury on Sasori's face. "I'm just quoting examples of what they might be thinking. I believe you can do it, if that's worth anything to you."

"I _can_ do it, I've done it before and it's been _perfect!_" the boy snarls, forgetting his temper. "I just need a stronger subject so I can prove to everyone the advantages over normal puppets. I need someone strong and _he's mine and he belongs to me and I should have him!_" His hands twitch and then twist together, fighting each other in his tight, angry grasp. Sandaime watches carefully, remembering.

'_I've done it before and it's been perfect!'_ Yes, that was five years ago, after the last and biggest invasion force sent by Konoha. Sandaime recalls Chiyo turning up afterwards to list her son and daughter-in-law as having been killed in action. Well, they _had_ been part of the defence corps that had gone up against Konoha's White Fang: everything that had happened afterwards had been a foregone conclusion, really. He also remembers the small party of officials she led back to her house later that same night, after everyone else was asleep. She had said she had something to show them.

Sandaime has every confidence in Sasori's skill. In other days some might question his ethics, but these are not peaceful times and Suna is officially at war with Kumogakure, Kusagakure and Iwagakure... or at least, that was the situation a few hours ago when he was last updated. Impromptu alliances may have been formed since then with some hidden villages, perhaps a few surprise attacks carried out on others. Things in the field change too quickly to relay every decision back to the Kazekage and Council for approval, and Sandaime feels he's doing a good job if he can keep up with the list of Suna's allies and enemies on any given day. He has the sneaking suspicion they're due more hostilities with Konoha any day now, and of course thanks to the lunatics in control of Kirigakure no one ever has any idea whose side _they're _on at any given moment. Sunagakure is not in a very strong position, so ideas like Sasori's are usually pounced on with all the enthusiasm a new weapon in wartime deserves. At least, ideas that aren't proposed by a twelve-year-old boy with a reputation for _strangeness, _someone whose perceived arrogance and presumption have already cut him off from most of those in authority. Having Chiyo for a grandmother is all that gives him any standing in the village, and even that wouldn't be enough if the Kazekage himself weren't supporting this current project. Of course, even with proper backing one can't simply ask for volunteers in something like this, which brings the problem back to the beginning again.

"I could have killed him, you know. Filthy spy." Sasori is speaking quietly, addressing his clenched hands. His hair hangs in his eyes, making his expression difficult to read. "But the mission was to capture him alive so they could interrogate him about Grass Country, so I did. I fought him; I saw him use his jutsu and he's strong. Got a bloodline, too. I can use that. And now all the rumours are saying that he didn't know anything useful... so the council's just going to have him killed when they could give him back to _me_." He looks up, gazing into Sandaime's eyes. "I caught him, he's mine," he repeats softly, forcefully.

Sandaime shrugs tiredly, shaking his head. "I don't know, Sasori. I really don't know. I've promised you I'll try and talk them round, but I don't know what else I can do for you."

Sasori shuffles his feet and mutters something poisonous under his breath, but the earlier rage has died down for now into banked ashes, calm for now but waiting to be stirred up again by an unwary word. Sandaime decides to play it safe, and changes the subject altogether. "You must be hungry by now. Come on, I'll treat you to something. There's a place that does decent ramen near here, if you'd like some?"

Sasori sneers and makes gagging noises. "Ramen? _Please_. Eating that sort of rubbish kills your brain cells. Take me someplace good, or I'm turning round and going home on my own."

Sandaime can't help but laugh, surprised and delighted by the response when after a moment the boy joins in with a little close-lipped smile of his own. Sasori gets up and takes a few steps in the direction of the bright lights of Suna's downtown before pausing and looking back over his shoulder, eyebrows raised. _'Are you coming or not?'_ is clearly the question, and Sandaime bites back another grin and follows, though his thoughts cannot entirely leave Sasori's new obsession alone.

Human puppets... something only a mind like Sasori's could have come up with. Created while the subject is still alive, they possess the potential to revolutionise puppet-jutsu across the ninja world. Of course, the difficulty of their creation means that Suna, with Sasori as the sole person capable of making them, will have an unmistakeable edge over the other villages, and Sandaime can't imagine the council debating for long over whether the advantages outweigh the darker sides of the art. Still, it's a nasty thing to consider in too much detail, and the shiver that runs down Sandaime's spine as they leave the stairs and the open space of the courtyard behind is perhaps not due solely to the deepening chill in the air as night advances on the Hidden Sand.


End file.
